


Hell Freezes Over

by charliebrown1234, Turcote



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cave-In, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote/pseuds/Turcote
Summary: The year is 2002, and Crowley and Aziraphale are sent to Alaska to investigate a decommissioned entrance to Hell. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. The Cave

“This has to be the most idiotic assignment we’ve ever been sent on,” Crowley grumbles, flipping up the collar of his coat against the wind as he walks. “And yes, I’m including the time you had to find out whether or not Dungeons & Dragons was actually a Satanic plot to warp the minds of teenagers.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale replies brightly. “I’ve never been to Alaska before. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

Crowley supposes that the scenery is vaguely beautiful, in a snowy, mountainy sort of way. Personally, he would choose the streets of London over the tundra any day. They’ve been walking toward their destination for almost an hour now, and his fingers are freezing despite his thick winter gloves. In fact, _all_ of him is bloody freezing, and he scowls as he shoves his hands into his coat pockets.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, looks positively delighted at their surroundings. He’s bundled into a puffy, cream-colored winter coat, and sporting the addition of a scarf, with matching ear muffs and gloves. Somehow he manages to look completely fetching in them, despite their hideous tartan pattern. His blue eyes stand out even more than usual against the backdrop of gray sky and white mountains. He smiles at Crowley, the tip of his nose pink, and Crowley has the distinct notion that Aziraphale knows perfectly well how much the cold suits him. Smug bastard.

“Although I do hope we can get the work done as quickly as possible,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve heard that the seafood here is simply to die for, and I’d like to make it back into town for dinner.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders move in a happy little wiggle of anticipation, and Crowley can’t help but let go of some of his sour mood.

“It should be pretty simple,” Crowley says. “Well, as simple as poking around an old entrance to Hell can be, I suppose. Honestly, we don’t even need to go _in_ the cave, we can just _say_ that we did and move on.”

“I don’t know...” Aziraphale says, a little unsure. “Heaven was _very_ insistent that I give a full report...“

“Do you even know why they sent us here in the first place?”

Aziraphale brightens again, as if he’d been waiting for Crowley to ask him that very question.

“_Well_, Gabriel was a little vague on the specifics but I did some digging on my _own_, and it’s something to do with—“ Aziraphale pauses for dramatic effect, clearly very pleased with himself. “—_Internet_.”

“Is that so?” Crowley asks, biting back his smile.

Soft, lacy snowflakes are starting to drift down from the gray sky and a few of them land in Aziraphale’s hair, nearly invisible in his blonde curls.

“_Yes_,” Aziraphale says, a little smugly. “I’m not sure how much you know about the internet, Crowley, but it’s all the humans are talking about these days. I read a book about it.”

Considering that it’s 2002, Crowley is confident that humans have been talking about the internet for more than a decade, but being only fifteen years behind current technology is pretty impressive as far as Aziraphale goes.

“You’ve got it, angel,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale puffs up a little at the praise, and... blushes? Maybe it’s because this is the first time on this particular trip he’s dropped ‘angel’ into their conversation. _Wishful thinking_, he quickly chides himself, looking away. It’s probably just the cold flushing Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“The internet is absolutely the reason we’ve been dragged out in this fucking cold to look at a dusty old cave,” Crowley grouses. “Some idiot put this spot in an article called “The 50 Spookiest Places in America” and now Hell wants me to make sure the humans aren’t getting up to trouble around here.”

He kicks at a loose rock, sending it skidding across the frozen ground.

“There’s no need to be so gloomy,” Aziraphale says, patting his arm in a way that’s only slightly patronizing. “Besides, we’re almost there, look.”

They round a corner and indeed, Crowley can see the mouth of the cave tucked into the cliff side some fifty feet away. It looks like any cave might, opening up into a large, yawning cavern that stretches down into the mountain. Crowley’s never been to this particular site before (he’d been mostly stationed near the hellmouth in Scotland) but he recalled that there were a few decommissioned hellmouths scattered across the globe. Most, like this one, had been shut down when the nearby human populations had grown too numerous and curious for Hell’s comfort.

A bitter wind whistles around the corner of the cave, cutting through Crowley’s stylish winter coat as he stops and hugs himself irritably against the cold. Aziraphale stops as well, looking at him sympathetically before a distinctly unangelic twinkle of mischief appears in his eyes.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, almost conspiratorially, “you wouldn’t be so cold if you didn’t insist on favoring style over practicality.”

In a flash, Aziraphale removes his earmuffs and reaches up to place them securely over Crowley’s ears instead.

“_There_. Stylish _and_ practical. Really, you look very charming in tartan, my dear, it suits you.”

Crowley knows that Aziraphale is teasing him, and it’s perfectly well-deserved considering the less than complimentary comments Crowley had made about Aziraphale’s accessories when they had first met up earlier that day. Normally, Crowley would have a quick response ready at the tip of his tongue, but he’s finding himself suddenly at a loss for words.

The earmuffs are soft against Crowley’s ears and still warm from Aziraphale’s lingering body heat. There’s even more warmth coming off of the angel himself, his face only inches from Crowley’s. As Crowley watches, a snowflake floats down and settles on Aziraphale’s eyelashes.

Aziraphale reaches up to make one final adjustment to the earmuffs and his fingertips brush the sides of Crowley’s face, and oh, this isn’t fair, this is more than Crowley can stand. A voice echoes in his ears— _‘you go too fast for me’_—and Crowley realizes that he needs to hit the brakes _now_ before he does something truly reckless.

He snaps his fingers and a handful sized pile of snow materializes in the air and drops down the back of Aziraphale’s collar.

Aziraphale shrieks and jumps into the air.

“Crowley! You fiend! That was _completely_ uncalled for.”

Crowley smothers a laugh as Aziraphale shakes his collar comically and squirms as snow drips down his neck.

“I thought your scarf would protect you!” Crowley says, grinning widely. “It’s so _practical_ and _stylish!_”

Aziraphale scowls in reply.

“It’s only practical against the elements, not against incorrigible demons.”

“Alright, don’t get your halo in a twist.”

He snaps his fingers again and the damp snow vanishes from Aziraphale’s collar. There might also be a miraculous, lingering warmth that spills down his coat in its place, although if asked Crowley would steadfastly deny any involvement.

“If you didn’t want to wear my earmuffs you could’ve just said,” Aziraphale complains, and he reaches up to pull them off of Crowley’s head.

“Nope! They’re mine now,” Crowley says, ducking away.

“Really, Crowley.” There’s a hint of a smile lurking in the corner of Aziraphale’s lips.

“If you want them back you’ll have to take them.” Crowley dodges backwards, moving toward the mouth of the cave.

“Take them, you say?” Aziraphale replies, a gleam in his eye. Crowley’s seen that look before. It’s usually when Aziraphale becomes exasperated with a customer and they suddenly find they’ve lost their keys or their phone somewhere outside the bookshop.

Aziraphale darts forward and grabs at the earmuffs, his fingertips briefly brushing Crowley’s hair before Crowley weaves to the left and out of his reach. Crowley lets out a laugh, and so does Aziraphale, their breath clouding in the air around them. Crowley takes off the earmuffs and holds them over his head.

The two of them dart and dodge their way towards the hellmouth, Aziraphale narrowly missing each time. Then Aziraphale is tackling him, pushing him into the powdery snow at the cave mouth and triumphantly snatching the earmuffs away. He grins victoriously as he places the earmuffs back on his head, preening like they’re a roman laurel.

Crowley’s back is flat against the snow and despite the freezing water rapidly melting into his hair and soaking into his collar, he finds himself, very abruptly, not cold in the slightest. In fact, all of his senses are suddenly operating in burning overdrive and Crowley wonders, dazed, if he’ll ever be capable of feeling cold again.

Aziraphale is half-sprawled on top of him, his knees straddling Crowley’s waist and one hand braced in the snow near Crowley’s shoulder. Everything -- the drift of snow from the sky, Aziraphale’s weight pressed against his torso -- slides into slow motion. Crowley holds very, very still, hardly trusting himself to breathe, certainly not trusting himself to speak. A dozen wild ideas race unbidden through his mind, mixing together with several millenia’s worth of half-formed fantasies that he normally works so hard to repress.

It’s both a relief and a disappointment then when Aziraphale rolls off him and to the side, and the world begins to spin at its normal pace once more. Still, the press of Aziraphale’s body against his own isn’t something Crowley is likely to forget any time soon, and his heart continues to beat at a rapid rate.

If angels can sense love, is it possible that Aziraphale could have somehow picked up on the vivid, smoldering emotions that exploded in Crowley’s chest the moment Aziraphale pushed him into the snow?

He glances at Aziraphale from behind his dark glasses, but those particular concerns are shoved away when Aziraphale suddenly grimaces in pain and brings a hand to his chest.

“You alright?” Crowley sits up, leaning toward him.

“Yes, I think so. I felt like someone ran me through with an icicle for a moment.” Aziraphale frowns. “But now I just feel...chilly, I suppose. Perhaps the hellmouth is affecting me?”

Crowley had hoped, even assumed, that this place had been out of commission for long enough that it wouldn’t be a problem, but now that they’re closer to the cave he can feel the chill of hell spilling out around them. It seeps into his bones and reminds him of the first few days after the fall. The absence of the heavenly fire that used to keep him warm was one of the worst parts of adjusting to being a demon, and he hopes Aziraphale isn’t experiencing the same thing.

“Are you still connected to heaven?” Crowley asks, curious and concerned in equal measure.

“I believe so. I just feel...muted? Like a bad telephone connection.” Aziraphale rubs at his chest absentmindedly, shivering slightly. “I wonder…”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and a malformed teacup and saucer appears. With the cup and saucer cut neatly in half vertically, it almost looks like a modern art piece.

Aziraphale looks perturbed, and then he shivers _hard_, a single full-body tremor that washes over him for a brief moment before vanishing entirely.

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale says, more shocked than anything else. “That… That was positively dreadful. I think I ought to avoid doing any more of _that_ for the time being.”

“Do you want to stay here?” Crowley asks, twisting his wrist and discretely vanishing the mangled teacup. “I can’t imagine it’ll get any better if you go inside the cave.”

“No need to fuss, my dear, humans manage their entire lives without being able to perform miracles. I’m sure I can survive for an hour.”

“I’m not _fussing_, I just don’t want to listen to you complain the whole time.”

Crowley is fussing. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to have to experience being cut off from heaven for a minute, much less an hour.

“Besides, it’s probably going to be longer than an hour, angel.”

“All the more reason to get a move on then!” Aziraphale says as he climbs clumsily to his feet and claps his hands together determinedly. “The sooner we start, the sooner we finish. Besides, if humans really have taken an interest in this place then surely it’s my responsibility to make sure there’s nothing dangerous here.”

Crowley eyes him suspiciously.

“I’ll be fine, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “I’ll tell you if it gets worse.”

The air in the cave is stale and a little damp, but noticeably warmer as they move deeper into the earth. The initial chill of Hell’s proximity is easy enough for Crowley to shake — he’s done it enough times before. The cave’s natural temperature is certainly more pleasant than the bitter wind outside, and Crowley peels off his gloves and shoves them into his pockets.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, pulls his scarf closer and idly runs his hands up and down his arms with a shiver.

“Did you know,” Aziraphale says. “Humans used to say that Hell must be real because temperatures got warmer the deeper they went into the Earth. Ironic, isn’t it, that the opposite is true for angels?”

Crowley isn’t sure if ‘ironic’ is the word he’d use— ‘fucked up’ seems a bit more fitting for Aziraphale’s present situation—but he doesn’t think sharing that opinion would be particularly helpful.

The tunnel takes a sharp turn and they suddenly find themselves in an open, expansive cavern. The last of the light from the entrance has long since faded, but Crowley’s eyes have already adjusted to the dark. There are a few perks to being a demon, after all. As an angel, he’d been able to see in the dark better than a human could, but it was nothing like the clear, complete night vision he has now.

The rocky floor beneath them continues forward toward the back of the cavern, but a dozen or so feet to their right it drops off in an abrupt ledge. Below the ledge, a large, placid lake spreads out across most of the chamber. The water is murky and still, only the barest hint of ripples disturbing the smooth surface.

In the far corner of the cavern, some sixty feet away, Crowley spots what looks like an abandoned camp of some kind, but it’s too far away for him to see more than a pile of firewood and some haphazardly assembled wooden shelves.

“What are you looking at?” Aziraphale asks, squinting into the pitch black. “I can barely see past my own nose in here.”

“Some old human camp, I think. Why don’t we check that out and then call it a day? Surely that’ll be enough for our reports.”

Crowley expects an argument, something about Aziraphale’s duty as a representative of heaven, or any of the other nonsense that Aziraphale tended to spout whenever Crowley suggested they shirk their assignments. Instead, Aziraphale merely nods, pinching the bridge of his nose and grimacing. He catches Crowley looking his way and quickly drops his hand back to his side.

“Tally ho, then,” Aziraphale says cheerfully, purposefully avoiding Crowley’s questioning gaze. He starts forward but stumbles over a rock, and Crowley instinctively reaches out an arm to steady him.

“Careful there, angel, the last thing we need is for you to trip in the dark and impale yourself on a stalactite.”

“It’s stala_gmite_, dear, stalac_tites_ are the ones on the ceiling and stalagmites are— Crowley, my night vision may be rotten compared to yours but I can still see you rolling your eyes, you know.”

Aziraphale sighs, and waves a hand in front of his own face, testing his vision.

“You’re right of course,” he continues. “This is untenable. Well, I may not be able to perform miracles at the moment but I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes in concentration, and a moment later a bright, golden light springs into existence above his temples.

Crowley has only seen Aziraphale manifest his halo on a handful of occasions, and maintains that the angel simply forgets that it’s there most of the time (an accusation that Aziraphale steadfastly denies whenever Crowley brings it up.) The last time he’d seen it had been on a dark night several decades ago; Aziraphale had drunkenly lost his pocket watch as they were strolling through Highgate Wood, and had flipped his halo on before an equally drunk Crowley could stop him. Crowley had been forced to hastily wipe the memories of an entire tour group and send them on their way while Aziraphale poked around in the underbrush, glowing.

Back then, the halo had provided a soft, lovely radiance that gently illuminated the woods around them. Now, in the total darkness of the cave, it’s a veritable _explosion_ of light. It bounces off of the still surface of the lake and splashes huge, shifting reflections of the water against the rocky walls.

Crowley blinks, startled, but can’t quite bring himself to pull his gaze away from Aziraphale’s face. The angel’s hair is nearly white against the backdrop of vivid light and his blue eyes almost seem to glow.

“Oh, that’s rather a lot, isn’t it?” Aziraphale smiles at him, a bit sheepishly, and Crowley’s heart does a funny little flip in his chest. “Maybe I could—”

His words are cut off by the unmistakable sound of rustling wings, and before either of them can react, dozens of bats are rushing through the air above them. The bats dip and swoop around their heads, forcing them to duck.

Aziraphale lets out a yelp of surprise and his halo abruptly vanishes, plunging them back into darkness. The rustling continues for a few more moments before the swarm of bats exits down one of the twisting tunnels that lead out of the cavern and deeper into the cave.

“_Well_,” Aziraphale says, straightening back up. “So much for that, then. I do hope I didn’t frighten them too much, the poor things.”

Aziraphale’s face is so full of concern that Crowley has to bite back a smile.

“I’m sure they’re fine. Anyway, I planned ahead for exactly this situation.”

Crowley reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a heavy black torch. He hands it to Aziraphale.

“I brought this for you. It’s the best on the market. Waterproof, shatterproof, the whole deal.”

Aziraphale clicks the light on and off a few times, experimentally sweeping the narrow beam across the lake. He smiles, pleased.

“Thank you, Crowley, that’s so—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Crowley interrupts, waving off the inevitable compliment. “Just try not to lose it, okay?”

They skirt around the rock ledge that drops off into the lake, making their way to the back corner of the chamber, near another tunnel that winds its way back into the darkness.

Up close, Crowley can see that his initial guess had been correct. Spread out inside a natural nook in the cavern wall is the makings of a small but organized camp. There’s a neat stack of firewood near a circle of rocks, and the dark soot stains coloring the high arched ceiling above suggest it was used as a fire pit. The remains of three moth eaten bedrolls are spread out near it along with some worn leather knapsacks.

Whoever set this place up had clearly intended to make it semi-permanent judging by the ramshackle wooden shelves erected along one wall. Aziraphale plucks a rusted tin can off the shelves and inspects it curiously, face lighting up with interest.

“How long do you think this has been here?” he asks, turning the can over in his hands a few times before placing it back on the shelf.

“I dunno,” Crowley says, peering inside a battered crate tucked under a small rocky overhang. A half dozen jugs filled with dark liquid greet his inquisitive gaze, and he picks one up and removes the cork to allow the unmistakable smell of alcohol to fill the air.

Crowley grins.

“I think we’ve found ourselves a genuine bootlegger’s hideout. Americans and their Prohibition, what a _disaster_.”

“Remind me, was that one of ours or one of yours?” Aziraphale asks, half distracted by the discovery of an old, water stained matchbook. He pulls out a match, strikes it against the box, and looks disappointed when nothing happens. He puts it back on the shelf carefully.

“No idea,” Crowley says. “But bootlegging is definitely one of ours.”

He lifts the jug to his mouth and takes a tentative sip. The liquor is absolutely disgusting, tasting like a mixture of dust and petrol, but Crowley forces himself to swallow it, keeping his expression neutral. He holds the jug out toward Aziraphale.

“Here, try this. It’s actually pretty good.”

Aziraphale eyes him suspiciously.

“You can’t be serious.”

“_Yes_, I’m serious. Come on, give it a taste.”

Aziraphale gingerly takes the jug and tips a little bit of the liquor into his mouth. He immediately spits it out, sputtering and coughing, and Crowley bursts into laughter.

“Crowley, this is _vile_, you’re such a— such a—,” Aziraphale is clearly trying very hard to put on an affronted expression but he’s failing miserably, his smile breaking through as he wipes his mouth on the back of his gloved hand. He thrusts the jug back into Crowley’s hands, smothering an obvious laugh of his own “—such a _devil_ sometimes, you know that?”

Crowley shrugs, still grinning, but the smile drops off his face when Aziraphale winces in pain, eyes screwing shut as his hand moves up to press against his chest.

“Aziraphale, what’s wrong? Is it the alcohol? I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Aziraphale says quickly. He opens his eyes, but the lines of strain remain etched on his face. “You don’t need to worry, I’m just...I’m just going to sit down for a moment.”

He does exactly that, sinking down to the ground. He leans back against the stone wall and closes his eyes. Crowley hurriedly places the jug back in its crate and moves over beside him.

“It’s this place, isn’t it?” Crowley groans, running a hand over his face in frustration. He starts to pace back and forth. “I _knew_ you shouldn’t have come in, I—”

“Crowley.”

“—I don’t know why I let you talk me into—”

“_Crowley_.”

“What?!” Crowley stops his pacing and finds Aziraphale looking up at him pointedly, eyebrows raised.

“You’re fussing, dear.”

“It’s not fussing if something’s wrong,” Crowley replies with a glare.

“Nothing’s wrong, I just need to rest for a minute.” Aziraphale looks pale and drawn in the light of the torch.

Crowley huffs an irritated breath and turns away. He isn’t actually angry at Aziraphale, just worried and frustrated, which happen to be two of his least favorite emotions. He pokes anxiously around the camp, peering into dark corners while shooting furtive glances at Aziraphale.

He isn’t looking great. As Crowley watches, Aziraphale shivers hard, then presses his hand to his chest again in discomfort.

_He needs a distraction_, Crowley thinks to himself. _Keep his mind off the cold_. He spots a worn leather book tucked under a bedroll and retrieves it before making his way back to Aziraphale.

“Present for you,” Crowley says as he drops it carefully into Aziraphale’s lap.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale says, eyes sparking with interest.

Crowley shrugs in reply, but Aziraphale is already too entranced with the book to notice.

“It appears to be a journal of sorts,” he says, turning it over in his hands. “How interesting!”

Aziraphale removes his gloves and folds them carefully into his coat pockets before opening the journal with a gentle hand. He adjusts the torch so its beam falls more solidly on the pages, then grumbles when he can’t hold the torch at the right angle. With a look at Crowley that seems to say _‘I need to be able to see and just so you know I’m really not in the mood to be teased right now’_, he manifests his halo once again, making an obvious effort to significantly tone down the brightness. The soft, almost fuzzy, golden glow illuminates the space around Aziraphale, and he sighs with satisfaction before flipping quickly through the journal.

“It seems to be mostly records,” Aziraphale says distractedly as he continues to peruse the pages. “Sales, and accounting for shipments, but there are some personal notes here too...”

Crowley is relieved to see some color back in Aziraphale’s face as he peers at the decades old pages. He had been worried earlier when Aziraphale had taken an abrupt trip to the ground, but he looks a little better already. _Typical_, he thinks, _that some dusty old book would be all it took to put a spring back in Aziraphale’s step_. Although maybe he really had just needed a few minutes to rest, and soon they could be on their way until this place was just a speck in the distance.

Crowley is pulled from his thoughts as Aziraphale’s halo flickers alarmingly. The angel’s face is pale with shock, eyes locked on the journal.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asks urgently, worried about a relapse. Aziraphale jumps a little at the sound of his voice, tearing his wide eyes away from the page and up to meet Crowley’s.

“Oh! Well...just listen to this.”

Aziraphale returns his attention to the journal and begins to read out loud.

_‘December 30, 1931_

_Josiah says Im being a superstitious fool, but I know something aint right about this place. I cant quite put my finger on it, but just being here makes my skin crawl and that’s a fact. We’ve only got one more case of product to move and then we’re on to the next town, and thank God for that. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since we made camp here. Last night I swear there were voices coming from farther down the cavern, such terrible voices the likes of which I’ve never heard. _

_I should be sleeping now but every time I try to close my eyes it feels like something is watching me, staring right down into my very soul. Is there something moving in the darkness? Maybe I should wake Josiah and Eli...but surely it’s just a trick of the firelight._

_Oh God, what is that sound?? I don’t—’_

“After that it sort of...trails off,” Aziraphale says, his voice tight. “And…”

He holds the journal out and in the soft light of his halo Crowley can see an unmistakable smear of old, dried blood across the bottom of the page.

Crowley bends close to investigate, peering closely -

“Who are you?”

Crowley turns in shock, and Aziraphale abruptly extinguishes his halo.

“Who’s that with you? What was that light?” the owner of the voice asks, moving closer, crowding aggressively into Crowley’s space. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

It’s a demon. Crowley can tell just by the noxious smell of sulphur. He must have snuck up on them while Aziraphale was reading. _Shit_. Crowley can’t help but kick himself for his lack of foresight. He should have known there might still be other demons hanging around this place even if it had been officially decommissioned; it would be fucking typical for the bureaucrats of Hell to not adequately communicate a closure, and demons were nothing if not creatures of habit. 

“Hold on there,” Crowley interjects smoothly. “I am supposed to be here, didn’t anyone tell you? Annual testing of security at Hellmouth 26?”

The demon looks confused.

“Well, I suppose they wouldn’t tell you. It’s a test of readiness after all. Excellent job on finding us though, that’ll be a real feather in your cap with the guys downstairs.”

Behind him, Crowley can hear cloth scraping against stone as Aziraphale levers himself upright.

“Who’s that with you, then? And what’s that smell?” The demon sniffs suspiciously.

“What smell?” Crowley asks, striving for nonchalant.

The demon moves closer. “You don’t smell that? Smells holy.”

Crowley pulls a face. “Must be the bible I knocked over. You know bibles, always stinking up the place.”

The demon hums an agreement.

“Who’s that with you then?”

“The chief security inspector,” Crowley lies.

“Why isn’t he coming out?”

“Anonymity of course!” Crowley replies, shifting so Aziraphale is hidden behind his body. “If you knew what he looked like you’d be able to prepare for him. Like mystery shoppers!”

“I don’t believe you,” the demon sneers. “You bring a human in here? Little fling next to the hellmouth?”

Crowley shifts again as the demon moves to look behind him.

“I’ll let you go if you share.” The demon smiles lecherously. “It’s been ages since I was upstairs.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“No? I promise I’ll be gentle.” The demon’s smile has too many teeth.

“Fuck off,” Crowley snarls.

“Not without my share!” The demon pulls out a short knife and slashes it forward. Crowley dodges backwards, inadvertently exposing Aziraphale to the demon’s eyes.

“I recognize you…” the demon says thoughtfully, eyeing Aziraphale. “You’re that angel, aren’t you? The one permanently stationed on Earth. I’ve seen you before.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale says dismissively. The effect is ruined when he shivers drastically.

“You’re not doing so well, are you?” the demon taunts. “Little too close to Hell, angel?”

Crowley bristles at the use of the nickname, but Aziraphale says nothing, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Why don’t you crawl back to where you came from?” Crowley growls, moving in front of Aziraphale again.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re hanging around with an angel?” the demon replies, tossing his knife from hand to hand.

Crowley says nothing.

“Alright then, have it your way. If you won’t tell me, maybe you’ll tell someone from Downstairs. Let me just take care of your angel friend here, and we’ll get this all squared away.”

The demon grins nastily and advances forward, knife glinting dully in the light of the discarded torch.

“Stay back!” Crowley says to Aziraphale, throwing an arm across his chest to keep him out of reach of the blade. “I can handle this.”

“You think so?” the demon taunts. The demon drops the knife and withdraws a sword, hellish light glimmering from the blade. Crowley swallows. He’s heard about swords forged in hell fire, but he’s never seen one in person. One slash with that blade could easily discorporate Aziraphale or worse.

“Ah, _shit_,” Crowley curses.

He quickly miracles up his own blade to meet the downstroke, wincing as his conjured sword shudders under the hellfire steel. He pushes back firmly, the shriek of metal deafening, and shouts, “Get out of here!” to Aziraphale.

He doesn’t stop to look if Aziraphale follows his directions. The demon wields the hellfire sword like a master, raining down a flurry of blows on Crowley’s ill-prepared frame. Crowley manages to deflect the majority, but a few slip by and nick his coat, opening stinging, bloody lines on his upper arms.

“Still think you can handle me?” the demon taunts. Crowley realizes with a lurch that the demon is playing with him. He is being pushed further and further away from Aziraphale and he’s being rapidly herded towards the wall. If he gets trapped, the demon will discorporate him for sure.

Crowley doesn’t respond to the taunts, thinking furiously. He needs to come up with something clever to defeat this shitstain of a demon before he gets discorporated and Aziraphale is left defenseless.

Fuck, where’s Aziraphale? Did he run like Crowley told him to?

Crowley spares a second to look for Aziraphale in the dark and in that moment the demon parries Crowley’s sword to the side and roundhouse kicks him in the chest.

Crowley goes flying. He registers _hip elbow back_ and then his head connects with rock and he doesn’t think anything much at all.

He’s only out for a few seconds before Aziraphale’s voice crying, “Crowley!” in the distance rouses him. His head swims, nausea churning his guts, and he blearily opens his eyes to see the demon stalking towards him, sword raised. He tries to get up, but he can’t make his limbs cooperate.

Then the demon is above him and the sword is moving towards his chest and Crowley shuts his eyes and thinks _I’m sorry, Aziraphale_ -

"STOP!"

Aziraphale’s voice rings with heavenly power. Crowley opens his eyes to see the sword tip stalled inches from his chest. He glances toward Aziraphale and for a moment Crowley thinks that he must be hallucinating, that the impact to his head must have damaged some crucial piece of his brain and disconnected him from reality entirely.

Aziraphale’s eyes are bright with heavenly fire, his halo and wings burning with incandescent light as the cave begins to tremble under the force of his wrath. Bolts of electricity crackle around him, scattering across the ceiling. It’s wild and magnificent and _fucking_ terrifying, and Crowley realizes with a jolt that he’s witnessing the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

“Back away from him. _Now_,” Aziraphale commands.

The sword moves closer to Crowley’s chest, the demon above grunting with effort.

“You will _not_ touch him!” Aziraphale shouts, and then the demon is hurtling upwards with incredible force. There’s a wet sound as the demon is impaled on a stalactite, then the sound of crumbling, crashing rocks as it falls to the ground. The riot of celestial light pouring off of Aziraphale abruptly winks out, and the darkness of the cave rushes back to fill the space.

In fact, there are a lot of stalactites falling to the ground now, and bits of the ceiling too. The cave is shaking, _revolting_ against Aziraphale’s miracle, and Crowley curls into a ball to make himself a smaller target. His head is still spinning, he can’t focus, the rocks are crashing down around him-

Aziraphale. Where’s Aziraphale?

He unfolds himself dizzily and pushes to his knees, searching desperately for Aziraphale in the gloom of the cave. Rocks continue to fall around him, and he twists to narrowly avoid being impaled by a falling stalactite.

“Aziraphale!”

There. A flash of cream. Crowley blinks rapidly and looks again. One of Aziraphale’s hands is pressed to his head, the other to his chest as he staggers dizzily, trying to avoid the falling rocks. He looks pale, shaky, ill, and Crowley begins to move toward him when several rocks fall from the ceiling and block his view.

“Aziraphale!” he calls again. The tremors are beginning to stop now as he clambors his way around the rock pile.

“Aziraphale?! Angel, are you alright?”

Silence.

“...Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s voice is weak, confused. Then, a splash.

Shit. The _lake_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> This is a completed work, and we'll be posting the next chapter on Friday, October 11th. We both have other works, so please check out our AO3 author pages. 
> 
> We both have tumblrs [charliebrown1234](https://charliebrown1234.tumblr.com/) and [thepaisleyelf](https://thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com/) if you're interested in updates, and a shout out to our lovely editor [Kazeetie](https://kazeetie.tumblr.com/)!


	2. The Lake

Crowley hurtles over the rocks, spending a quick miracle to heal his head and the cuts on his arms. Dusty particles of rock cloud the air around him and he coughs as it settles on his tongue and sifts down his throat. A last minute hope flashes across his mind that maybe the splash was just a falling stalactite, but even in the gloom it quickly becomes obvious that Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen.

He bolts forward, stumbling over fallen debris in his haste to cross the distance to where he’d last seen the angel. One particularly large chunk of rock catches on his boot and he trips, landing hard on his hands and knees. Cursing God and Satan and the rest of the bloody universe for good measure, Crowley pushes himself back up and sprints the rest of the way to where the rocky ground abruptly drops off into the deep water of the lake. 

Crowley’s thoughts are scattered and frantic as he peers over the ledge. Why isn’t Aziraphale surfacing? Aziraphale has never been a fan of swimming (he finds it undignified) but Crowley knows he can, he’s seen him do it.

As Crowley watches, horrified, Aziraphale’s earmuffs float to the surface. There’s a red stain marring the light tartan fabric, and Crowley abruptly realizes that Aziraphale might not be _able_ to swim on his own right now. 

Crowley dives into the lake without hesitation, searching desperately for Aziraphale even as the ice cold water steals his breath...or maybe that’s just the sight of Aziraphale unconscious several feet away, sinking like a stone. 

Crowley’s flashlight is tangled up in Aziraphale’s coat, its beam piercing through the dark water and illuminating the angel with an almost otherworldly glow. In the eerie, muffled light Crowley can see a trail of blood twisting in the water above Aziraphale’s temple, a winding ribbon of red. 

The sight of the angel’s blood is even more shocking than the cold, and he grimly cuts through the water towards Aziraphale. When he reaches him, Aziraphale is floating lifeless in the water and still sinking slowly, so he wraps a firm arm around his chest and kicks furiously. The cold saps his strength, but with a demonic miracle they quickly break the surface of the water. 

Crowley gasps for air and begins paddling for the edge of the lake, towing Aziraphale behind him. Aziraphale’s head keeps dipping back into the water, so Crowley is forced to readjust and cradle the angel’s head and shoulders in his arms, dramatically cutting down on their speed. Thankfully, Aziraphale fell close to the edge, and within seconds his feet touch rock and he’s dragging Aziraphale up and out of the lake. 

The stillness of their surroundings presses down on Crowley like a weight. The only sounds are the gentle lapping of the water and Crowley’s own panting breaths, echoing throughout the chamber as he lays Aziraphale on the hard ground. 

The deep, vicious gash lanced across Aziraphale’s forehead draws his attention immediately. The cut is just above his left eyebrow, leaking bright red blood everywhere. Crowley quickly wipes away the worst of it before resting his head on Aziraphale’s chest.

He’s initially reassured by the heartbeat he finds there, but as the moments crawl by, Crowley realizes that Aziraphale’s chest isn’t moving at all. He holds a shaky hand in the air just above Aziraphale’s mouth, but it only confirms his fear: 

Aziraphale isn’t breathing. 

Fuck, _fuck_. Crowley’s own heart is thumping wildly in his chest, the sound filling his head and overwhelming him in the quiet space. What is he supposed to do? It’s been ages since Aziraphale’s been injured like this, and Crowley’s ability to heal anyone other than himself has always been hit or miss at best. Besides, he has no idea how demonic magic would mix with an angel currently cut off from heaven, but his instincts tell him it wouldn’t end well.

Maybe he can do this the human way? He’s seen CPR in films, all he needs to do is keep Aziraphale’s heart beating and give Aziraphale some of his own air. He can do that.

Crowley gently tips back Aziraphale’s head, opening his airway and exposing his throat. All he needs to do is just put his mouth over Aziraphale’s and breathe. No big deal. He bends down, inches away from his lips - 

Aziraphale gasps for air and starts coughing. Crowley flings himself backwards, hands fluttering around Aziraphale’s shoulders as the angel rolls himself onto his side and coughs up water. 

“Whoa, just breathe, angel. You’re going to be fine.” 

Aziraphale sucks in great gulps of air, seemingly oblivious to Crowley’s words. He starts to shiver, the motion causing his breath to catch in his throat as he continues to cough out the last of the water from his lungs. Aziraphale tries to push himself upright but falters, hands slipping on the wet stone, so Crowley catches him by the shoulder and gently maneuvers him upright until they are sitting side by side. 

“C-C-C-Crowley?” Aziraphale finally says, throat hoarse from coughing.

“I’m right here, Aziraphale.”

Crowley wants to run his hands over Aziraphale’s arms, to push his wet curls back from where they’ve fallen over his forehead. He manages to resist the urge, but just barely. 

Aziraphale looks around, seemingly at nothing in particular, then frowns down at himself. 

“What h-happened? Why am I _wet_? You _know_ how m-much I hate s-swimming.” 

The look of utter disgust on Aziraphale’s face almost makes Crowley laugh, but he has bigger concerns at the moment. 

“You don’t remember?”

“There was a fight…” Aziraphale trails off, thinking furiously. “I...There was a demon…and rocks were falling...”

Crowley waits, watching with concern. He can almost see the wheels turning in Aziraphale’s mind as he struggles to remember what happened only moments before, staring blankly out across the lake. Eventually, the final gear seems to click into place and Aziraphale gasps, his gaze snapping to Crowley.

“Crowley! Are you injured? Please, tell me you’re alright. I thought that demon was going to run you through!” Aziraphale runs trembling hands down Crowley’s shirt, searching for injuries, and is only slightly impeded by the flashlight still dangling from his sleeve. 

“I’m fine, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?” Aziraphale looks confused. 

“You don’t remember? You threw that demon into the ceiling. I have no idea how, but there it is.” 

“I threw them…?” Aziraphale shivers in earnest as he frowns in thought. “But…I d-don’t feel connected to heaven. How could I…?”

A trail of blood drips down Aziraphale’s cheek as he thinks, and he brushes it away distractedly. The red looks garish on Aziraphale’s hand. 

“That’s quite a cut you’ve got there,” Crowley says hesitantly, working to keep a relaxed tone. 

“Cut?” Aziraphale says. “What cut?”

Crowley gestures at his forehead.

“You don’t feel that?” 

Aziraphale reaches up a tentative hand and winces when his fingers meet the gash. With a distracted gesture he moves to miracle it away, but he only succeeds in partially closing the wound before he gasps. 

Aziraphale goes paler and shivers so hard it looks like a convulsion. 

“S-something’s wrong,” Aziraphale stutters out. “That miracle came from _me_.”

“What do you mean, it came from you?”

“That miracle…That c-came from my _essence_, Crowley.”

Aziraphale pauses to shiver aggressively, then says, “I’m also...c-cold. And… empty?” Aziraphale’s gaze is unfocused as he gently taps on his chest. “Like I have less of m-me, somehow.”

That sounds ominous. Perhaps Aziraphale’s miracle to save Crowley from the demon wasn’t miraculous after all. If he had accidentally pulled power from himself that would also go a long way toward explaining why he was knocked out by a falling rock...and with less of himself to go around, Aziraphale is even more vulnerable to the draining effects of the Hellmouth. 

Crowley runs his fingers through his own wet hair, pushing it back from where it’s fallen across his face and tries not to groan with frustration. He needs to get the two of them out of this cave before Aziraphale becomes so diminished he can’t sustain himself. 

Another bout of shivers rattles Aziraphale’s frame. 

“Crowley, w-would you m-mind…” Aziraphale gestures at his dripping clothes. 

This, at least, Crowley can do something about. He snaps his fingers and miracles their wet clothes dry, detangling the torch as he does so and pocketing it.

“That feels much b-better, thank you,” Aziraphale says, rolling his shoulders in pleasure as his coat puffs back up with air. The blue tinge to his lips recedes, but as he watches, Aziraphale shudders with cold and presses a tense hand to his chest. 

Crowley’s stomach churns anxiously. He needs to get Aziraphale properly warm, and it’s not going to happen next to this lake. They need to get somewhere less cold and damp and come up with a game plan to get the fuck out of here. 

“Alright angel, time to go.” Crowley rises to his feet and watches as Aziraphale tries clumsily to get to his feet. He waits a moment, then holds out his hand. Aziraphale takes it. 

Whenever their hands had brushed in the past, in the many moments Crowley has carefully memorized and catalogued over the centuries, Aziraphale’s touch had always been pleasantly warm, like a well banked fire in the winter. Now, Aziraphale’s touch is freezing, cold and clammy like a corpse. 

Crowley puts those thoughts from his mind and pulls firmly upward, steadying Aziraphale as he sways. To his surprise, Aziraphale leans into the contact, resting his weight on Crowley’s hand as he grimaces and touches his partially healed wound. 

The two make their way back to the bootlegger’s camp at a snail’s pace. Aziraphale is having a hard time walking, shivering and stumbling even with Crowley’s help, and Crowley ruthlessly tamps down the anxiety in his stomach at this development. 

When they arrive at the camp, Crowley guides Aziraphale to a natural seat in the rock and lowers him against it. Aziraphale huffs a grateful sigh and slumps against the wall, shivering and swiping irritatedly at the bleeding cut on his forehead.

“Here,” Crowley says, snapping up a cloth for the angel to press against the wound. 

“Thank y-you,” Aziraphale says tiredly. 

Crowley snaps again and a thick black blanket drops down over Aziraphale’s shoulders. There are small demons embroidered in the corners. 

“R-really, Crowley? It’s not exactly m-my color.” 

Aziraphale manages a smile around his shivering. 

“I think I’m starting to s-see your point, by the way,” he continues, a little sheepishly. He huddles closer into the blanket. “About the c-cold, I mean.”

“Well, try to remember that next winter when you want to drag me ice skating.” 

Crowley pulls an appropriately dismissive face, but honestly, he would happily go ice skating every week if it meant that they were out of this bloody cave. 

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale murmurs, but he doesn’t really seem to be listening anymore. He pulls his knees up to his chest, folding in on himself with cold.

Seeing this, Crowley quickly creates a rough teepee shape of logs in the remains of the firepit. The logs are old and rather damp, but a quick snap of his fingers is more than enough to encourage them to ignite. The fire springs into existence with a soft _whoomph_, filling the small camp with light and painting long shadows on the walls around them. 

“Ohhhh,” Aziraphale breathes. 

Obvious relief colors Aziraphale’s features at the sudden rush of warmth. He leans towards it gratefully, and Crowley can’t help but feel a small note of satisfaction. He has this under control. Aziraphale can warm up and regain his strength and then they can get out of here, even if Crowley has to personally blast through the fallen rock himself. 

“Now all we need are some s’mores and this would really be a party,” he says, lowering himself to sit on the ground across the fire from Aziraphale. He stretches out his legs and leans back on the heels of his hands. 

“S’mores?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley watches as the flickering light from the fire weaves leisurely through his blonde hair. 

“Yeah, it’s an American thing. You’d love ‘em. You toast a marshmallow over a fire and then stick it between two graham crackers with some chocolate.”

“That does sound like s-something I would like…” 

There’s the distant but unmistakable sound of movement echoing down from another chamber of the cave, and Crowley and Aziraphale both freeze. 

“What was that?” Crowley whispers.

“I h-have no idea.” 

“I’ll go look. You stay here.”

“What? No!” Aziraphale protests. “You c-can’t go alone, what if you need my help?” 

It’s a nice sentiment, but Aziraphale only makes it halfway to his feet before he shudders and nearly falls over. Crowley catches him and gently pushes him back down before pulling the blanket a little tighter around Azirapahle’s shoulders. 

“Stay here, angel, I’ll be back before you know it, okay?” 

He starts to walk away. 

“Crowley….”

He turns back. Aziraphale is huddled into the blanket, eyes wide. He starts to speak but his words are lost as another round of shivers run across his frame. He tries again, eyebrows drawn together in effort.

“Be…be safe,” he manages to get out. “_Please_.”

Crowley would give anything in that moment, _anything_, to simply whisk the two of them away. He wants to bundle Aziraphale up on the sofa in the bookshop and press a steaming mug of tea into his hands, wants to kiss his cold nose and wrap himself around him until the shivering subsides. Even as he thinks it Crowley knows he would never dare to do such a thing in any circumstance, as much as he might want to. He can’t risk teleporting them either — this close to Hell there’s no telling who or what might be able to follow them back to the shop. 

Well. Crowley’s used to not getting what he wants. 

With a last regretful glance at Aziraphale, Crowley makes his way cautiously towards the sound. He walks for several long minutes before he hears two voices talking to one another. He slows his pace and ducks into a crevice to eavesdrop. 

“Are you sure you sensed another demon out here?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. It says right here on the paperwork, over a dozen usages of occult power.”

“There’s nobody here though! Lemme see that.” There’s a brief sound of scuffling feet and a few grunts as the two fight, followed by the sound of tearing paper. 

“Shit,” the first voice says. 

“Now what do we do?”

“Keep looking around, dummy! That demon’s still out here!”

Crowley listens tensely as the two demons kick their way around the cavern towards his hiding spot and readies himself for a fight

Then; “There’s no one out here. Do we really have to find them?”

A huff of exasperation, then the first voice speaks again. “Don’t huff at me. What if we just cut off all demonic powers to the cave? That way we don’t have to find ‘em and they can’t cause any trouble.”

“That might work, actually. Better than looking around all day up here.”

Crowley listens attentively as the voices fade into the distance, waits a few moments to make sure they’ve vanished back into the hell mouth, then bolts toward the bootlegger’s camp. If they’re about to cut off his demonic powers he needs to get back to Aziraphale as soon as possible. 

He’s racing now, using miracles to practically fly through the tunnels, and then his magic vanishes. It feels like running into a wall, brutal and absolute, and he stops mid tunnel to catch his now rasping breath. 

So much for that plan. He makes his way towards the camp at a slower but still brisk pace and hopes the new magical lockdown hasn’t adversely affected Aziraphale. 

The light of the campfire slowly comes back into view as Crowley continues down the tunnel, flickering gently against the dark walls. Crowley’s mind is racing, thoughts flipping over and over one another. So, no magic at all, then. _Shit_. 

Crowley runs a tired hand over his face. He needs to pull it together, focus on making the right decisions. 

Normally, Aziraphale’s the one who decides what the two of them should do at any given moment. Aziraphale has an opinion on everything; what restaurant they should try, what wine they should open, and Crowley is always more than content to agree. It’s a huge relief, really, that Aziraphale takes the decision making responsibility off of Crowley’s shoulders, and if Crowley is incidentally rewarded with one of Aziraphale’s bright smiles or a happy wiggle of Aziraphale’s shoulders, well. So much the better. 

Crowley doesn’t think Aziraphale will be up to much decision making now. Still, maybe the rest by the fire will have done the angel some good…

That particular train of thought is violently derailed as Crowley rounds the corner and takes in the sight of Aziraphale leaning against the sloping cave wall. His eyes are closed, lines of tension on his brow. Worse, the cloth Crowley miracled up to stop the wound from bleeding seems to be fully saturated, leaking blood like a sponge. Crowley can hear the steady _drip drip drip_ of blood trickling down Aziraphale’s face as it collects on the shoulder of his coat and stains his tartan scarf.

Crowley kneels down beside him, pulling one of his gloves from his pocket and swapping it with the cloth pressed against the wound.

Aziraphale stirs at the touch, eyes fluttering open.

“Oh,” he says. His eyes crinkle at their edges as he catches Crowley’s gaze. “You’re back. I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah, I’m back,” Crowley says softly, swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’ve been b-better, actually,” Aziraphale replies. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, matched moments later by the small, tired smile that slowly makes its way across his face. The sight of it is enough to spark an ember of warmth in Crowley’s chest that has nothing to do with the campfire beside him.

“It’s all coming and going in w-waves,” Aziraphale continues, a little shakily. “It’s not s-so bad, at the moment. Just this cut, but I can take care of that.” 

He reaches up for the glove that Crowley still holds against his temple, taking possession and keeping pressure on the wound. Aziraphale’s fingers are freezing where they brush up against Crowley’s, and Crowley has never wanted to take the angel’s hand in his more than at this moment. Instead, he simply allows his hand to linger on Aziraphale’s a few moments longer than is strictly necessary as he releases his own hold on the glove. 

“But enough about m-me, did you find anything? Or...anyone?” 

Aziraphale’s smile falters at that last word, and he searches Crowley’s face, a little nervously. 

Crowley clears his throat and it’s louder than he anticipated in the quiet space. 

“Good news and bad news,” he says. “Bad news is no more miracles—Hell’s catching on to our presence. The good news is that the demons who were sniffing around have left, so you won’t have to throw anyone else into the ceiling.”

To his surprise, a blush creeps over Aziraphale’s pale face and ears. 

“I’m...sorry that you had to w-witness that,” Aziraphale says quietly. “That’s not—that’s not how I like to be seen, you know.” The flush on his cheeks moves even higher and he looks away. “Especially not...well, especially not by you. I hope it doesn’t c-change your opinion of me.”

Crowley almost laughs, assuming Aziraphale must be joking, but a closer look at the angel’s face stuns him into silence.

Aziraphale is staring at the ground and pointedly avoiding Crowley’s eyes. His features are clouded with...embarrassment? No, not embarrassment. Something closer to...shame? 

At first, Crowley is baffled. How could Aziraphale possibly think he has anything to be ashamed of? 

But...then he remembers Aziraphale’s tight, unreadable expression all those years ago during the Flood, and again at Golgotha. Crowley thinks about everything he knows about the hosts of heaven; their righteous violence, their swift and efficient brutality, all ready to be unleashed at any moment they deemed necessary.

And then...Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who would rather give a sword away than wield it, who gets misty-eyed over particularly moving musical performances, who carefully catches errant mice in his bookshop and gently releases them in the park.

“Angel.” 

He waits until Aziraphale meets his eyes. “You saved my life. You put yourself in danger for me which, by the way, don’t _ever_ do again, please and thank you—” 

That, at least, is enough to coax a smile as well as a small eye roll from Aziraphale.

“Besides,” he continues, “there is nothing that you could do, absolutely nothing, that would ever—”

_‘—ever make me stop loving you,’_ are the words that flash on and off in Crowley’s mind like a neon sign. 

“—ever change who you are,” he finishes. “Which is, and I mean this very sincerely, a huge nerd.” 

Now _that_ earns Crowley a shocked, but sincere, burst of laughter.

“My _dear_, I _hardly_ think—”

“No, no, I’m telling the truth,” Crowley says as innocently as possible. “You could suplex a dozen demons and that still wouldn’t change the fact that you wear a tartan bow tie and say things like ‘scrumptious’ and ‘tally-ho’.”

“Really, Crowley, I would - I would--” Aziraphale’s words are swallowed up by a gasp of pain, and he drops the glove as his hands move to his chest. As it tumbles to the floor Crowley sees that it’s alarmingly full of blood. 

Aziraphale groans high and tight in his throat as a shudder runs through his frame. Crowley doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do except place what he hopes is a reassuring hand on his arm and wait. 

Aziraphale leans into the touch, shaking almost as hard as when Crowley pulled him out of the lake and grimacing in pain. Slowly, eventually, his shoulders begin to relax. He releases his hold on his chest, but continues to shiver.

Aziraphale slumps back against the wall, looking drained.

“What the hell was that?” Crowley asks, a little more anxiously than he’d intended.

“A wave,” Aziraphale replies tiredly.

“Yeah, you said that earlier, but what does that _mean_?”

“It happened for the first time while you were gone,” Aziraphale says. “I was cold, of course, and then all of a s-sudden I was freezing, almost drowning in how cold I was.” He pauses, shivering at the memory. “Then it was like something reached inside my chest and tore away a piece of myself. Everything started to _hurt_ and I had to... to ride it out, I suppose. Eventually it p-passed and just left the cold behind...until it h-happened again, just now.”

“That sounds... terrible,” Crowley says quietly, at a loss for words. Aziraphale makes a dismissive gesture, then shivers, so Crowley moves to grab another log to feed the dying fire.

When he turns back, fresh blood is welling up on Aziraphale’s forehead, spreading messily over his eye and down his nose and temple. Aziraphale wipes at the blood and then presses his sleeve against the wound, wincing. 

“You’re g-going to have to stitch me up, my d-dear,” he says. One of his eyes is obscured by his sleeve but he still manages to look over at Crowley imploringly. “No w-way around it, I’m afraid.”

Startled, Crowley drops the firewood and it tumbles out of his hands and lands in the fire with a loud _thud_. A shower of sparks explodes outward at the impact and Crowley blinks, dumbfounded.

“You want me to do _what_?”

He must have misheard. Surely Aziraphale doesn’t mean—

“I saw a f-first aid kit on the shelves,” Aziraphale says “I’d do it myself but…”

He holds up his trembling hands and shrugs. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have the dexterity at the moment.”

“You want me-You want _me_ to stitch you up?” Crowley sputters. “I’ve never stitched anything!” 

“I’ll w-walk you through it. It’s quite simple, really.” Aziraphale smiles encouragingly. “Now be a dear and go fetch the kit.”

Crowley walks to the shelves and grabs the first aid box, stomach twisting with anxiety. This is insane. This entire situation is absolutely insane. Crowley wishes he could lie down and sleep for a full day, preferably with the help of some very strong alcohol...but Aziraphale is waiting, watching him expectantly. The full body shivers seems to have eased a bit, reduced to only the occasional tremor, but blood continues to well up around his sleeve, painting vivid lines of red on the light fabric. 

Crowley walks over and sits down across from him, gripping the small box so tightly that his knuckles are nearly white. 

“I don’t know how you’re so bloody calm about this,” he grumbles, passing Aziraphale the box. 

“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been stitched up, unfortunately,” he says, investigating the contents thoroughly. “Usually I have to do the job myself, which is a tricky business.” 

He pulls out a tube of antiseptic cream, a pad of gauze, a small curved needle, a clamp tool, and some sutures before passing everything to Crowley. 

“First things first, clean the wound.” Aziraphale looks up at Crowley expectantly. 

“But why? It’s not like you’re going to get infected.”

“It’ll help you to see the wound you’re stitching,” Aziraphale says calmly. “Go and fetch some water from the lake.”

Crowley does so, using the emptied first aid kit as a receptacle. 

“Excellent. Now, clean the area around the wound.”

Crowley gingerly wipes the new and dried blood from Aziraphale’s face, revealing pale skin underneath. Aziraphale winces and says, “Good job. Now pull the suture through the needle and double it back and we’ll get started.”

Crowley freezes.

“Wait, what?”

Aziraphale sighs. 

“Double it back, dear,” Aziraphale gestures gracefully with his trembling hands. “I know you’re nervous but --”

“I’m not nervous,” Crowley snaps. 

Aziraphale gives him a look. 

“Fine, yes, I’m nervous, but why do you know all this? You said you’ve had to do this before, but why wouldn’t you just heal yourself?”

Aziraphale glances away.

“It was a long time ago,” he says. “During the last war. Heaven said I was performing too many frivolous miracles while I was a field medic.”

“And by ‘frivolous miracles’ you mean healing people?”

Crowley starts to thread the needle, almost glad to have a small task to focus on, an excuse to tear his eyes away from Aziraphale’s stormy expression. 

“Exactly so,” Aziraphale says tersely. “They decided that cutting me off from my healing abilities for a short time would be an appropriate punishment and, well. There was a war on, you know. I couldn’t just hide in my shop. There were battles and...and you can piece together the rest.”

Something dark and acrid bubbles up in Crowley’s chest and he clenches his jaw. Anger is not what Aziraphale needs right now, so Crowley swallows the furious hiss that instinctively rises in his throat.

He takes a deep breath.

“Well, angel, you’re not alone this time so just...guide me through it, okay?”

It’s awkward, and Crowley has to pause every few minutes to calm his nervous hands, but eventually he’s able to work a few neat stitches across the wound. Aziraphale talks him through most of the process, offering suggestions and gentle encouragement. Crowley lets Aziraphale’s voice wash over him as he works, trying not to notice how Aziraphale winces and clenches his hands into tight fists at his side. 

“There,” Crowley says, laying the needle down. “All done.”

Aziraphale smiles, looking drained. “Almost. Just put this cream on, and then the bandage. You’re doing very well, my dear boy.”

Crowley paints the antiseptic cream on carefully, then smoothes the bandage over the wound. Aziraphale is drawn and pale in the fading light of the fire, still shivering intermittently and grimacing. Covering the wound seems to have helped a tad, but Crowley knows they aren’t out of the woods yet. 

The flickering shadows on the wall suddenly shift, and Crowley realizes that the fire is dwindling. Without the aid of a miracle, the flames are struggling to catch on the recently added logs. 

_Of course,_ Crowley thinks bitterly, _because Satan forbid anything about this nightmare be easy._

Decisions, decisions, Crowley is sick to death of making decisions. Okay, the first priority might be getting the fuck out of here, but he can’t let Aziraphale freeze in the meantime. One step at a time. 

Crowley grabs the ratty leather knapsacks from where they lean against the bedrolls and drops them in front of Aziraphale.

“Here, dig through these and see if you can find anything to help the fire,” he says. “I’m going to look back at the tunnel to the entrance. Maybe there’s a spot in the rocks we can squeeze through.” 

“Do you think that’s likely?” Aziraphale asks. 

No, he doesn’t, and the note of hope in Aziraphale’s question is enough to press his heart like a vice. He hadn’t gotten a full picture of the tunnel in the chaotic aftermath of the cave-in, but he’d seen enough to cast that escape option into serious doubt.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But it’s worth checking out.”

The blanket he’d manifested earlier is crumpled on the ground, having slid off at some point during their makeshift surgery. Crowley retrieves it and wraps it once more around Aziraphale’s shoulders and Aziraphale reaches up to hold the fabric in place. Their hands brush, just for a moment. 

“I’ll be right back. If anything happens, _anything_, just shout, okay?”

Aziraphale nods, his attention already drifting away from Crowley and onto the knapsacks, which he opens and begins to rifle through carefully. 

Crowley doesn’t even have to make it all the way across the open expanse of the cavern to see that, as he suspected, they are well and truly fucked. The cave-in has completely sealed off the tunnel that they’d initially come through, and without the aid of a miracle (or several bundles of dynamite), that route is unquestionably not an option. 

He digs the palm of his hand into his forehead as he paces back and forth, thinking. The possibility exists that there’s another exit down one of the dark, winding tunnels that lead off beyond the camp, but Aziraphale certainly isn’t up for any exploration, and the thought of leaving him alone while Crowley goes off to look by himself is unacceptable. Well. He can get the fire going again, at least, and surely something will come to him. Everything is going to be fine, it will be fine, because it has to be. Aziraphale is going to be okay, he’s going to get out of here and be warm and happy and _fine_, because Crowley is going to fix it. Somehow. 

With that in mind, Crowley starts the path back to the camp and back to Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you to everyone who has commented! If you have thoughts about this chapter we'd love love love to hear them <3
> 
> Our Tumblrs are [here](https://www.charliebrown1234.tumblr.com) and [here](https://www.thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com) if you'd like to be buds!
> 
> Charlie would like to add a note for the medical people out there: the needle drivers are there but we wanted to keep the stitching as non graphic as possible. 
> 
> Turcote would like to add a note that she listened to [this album](https://open.spotify.com/album/7jkvvBzVXXUkea6calupTx?si=s88uWFcTQHy3PDv5XLCiyA) at least a dozen times while working on this story. 
> 
> The third and final chapter will be posted on Friday, October 18th, so we do hope that you will stay tuned!


	3. The Escape

Crowley arrives a few minutes later to find that Aziraphale has made quick work of the knapsacks. Their contents are spread out across the ground in front of him and his face is lit up with the same academic interest as when they’d found the journal.

“Look at this,” Aziraphale says, shuffling through a thick stack of old, yellowed papers. “There must be a year’s worth of documentation here, at least. Ledgers, correspondence from other bootleggers, notes on the local authorities and which of them are open to bribes...isn’t that fascinating?”

“It’s perfect,” Crowley says. “That’ll be great kindling.”

He holds out his hand expectantly and Aziraphale immediately bristles.

“Absolutely _not_, these are historic documents!”

Aziraphale’s indignant expression is so very familiar, so stubborn and ridiculous that it takes every ounce of Crowley’s willpower to not bend down and kiss him right then and there.

Instead, he merely raises an eyebrow and motions at the dwindling fire.

“Did you have any luck with the exit?” Aziraphale asks, pointedly ignoring Crowley’s gesturing.

“Don’t try to change the subject, and no, I didn’t. Which means it’s even more important that we keep the fire going, yeah?”

No amount of kindling is going to keep the fire going forever. Crowley knows that, and Aziraphale surely does too, which is undoubtedly part of why he’s being such a damn stubborn bastard about it.

Still, the fire is little more than smoldering embers at this point, and a tinge of blue is steadily making its way across Aziraphale’s pale face. It’s obvious that the rough first aid took a lot more out of him than he was willing to admit.

“I’m sorry angel, I am, but I’m not going to let you freeze,” Crowley continues, his voice a little softer now. “Come on, hand it over.”

Aziraphale pulls the papers closer to himself. This is quickly moving past frustratingly cute and into just plain frustrating, and Crowey makes a grab for the papers. Aziraphale snatches them back, affronted.

“_Crowley_, these kinds of first-person historical records are irreplaceable, we can’t just--”

“Aziraphale, _you_ are irreplaceable.”

The words are out of Crowley’s mouth before he can stop himself, and the force with which he speaks them is enough to shut Aziraphale up entirely. It shuts Crowley up as well, and they stare at each other across the dying fire in silence.

They both start to speak at once, their voices overlapping.

“Look, angel, I--”

“Oh, Crowley, I’m--”

They stop, flustered, and there’s another beat of silence.

Aziraphale looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, his petulant scowl long gone and his eyes fixed on Crowley.

“That’s...very kind of you to say, my dear.”

Crowley has grown used to Aziraphale’s quick sideways glances, the ones he shoots in Crowley’s direction when Aziraphale thinks he won’t notice, but this rush of attention is something else entirely. It’s direct and unguarded, his expression full of such warmth and fondness that it makes Crowley _ache_.

_It’s not kind, it’s true, _Crowley wants to say, _It’s an absolute, undeniable fact, like how the Earth goes ‘round the sun, or how ducks look so bloody smug all the time, or how you wouldn’t be looking at me like that right now if you weren’t so hurt and worn down and defenseless._

He doesn’t get a chance to find the right words to say in their place. Aziraphale suddenly goes rigid, and Crowley can nearly _see_ the wave of cold and pain that crests over him as he doubles over, gasping. The papers spill from his hands and scatter across the ground, forgotten by them both as Crowley hurtles himself down to Aziraphale’s side. He catches him just as he’s about to tip over, holding him steady while he shudders and pants for air.

Minutes that feel like hours crawl by, each one seemingly longer than the last. Aziraphale groans as tremors wash over him, pushing him into Crowley’s grip as he goes even paler. He twitches miserably, each tiny wave eliciting a grimace on his already pale face, and Crowley rubs a comforting hand down his back.

Eventually the spell passes and Aziraphale straightens up, shifting in place until he’s leaning back against the rocky wall once more, shivering in earnest. Crowley averts his eyes, wanting to give him a moment of privacy to collect himself, and busies himself with collecting the scattered pieces of paper.

“Here,” he says, and deposits a few of them into Aziraphale’s lap before turning his attention back to gathering up the rest. “We can use the bedrolls as kindling instead. But when we’re back in London this means I get a free pass to burn anything I want with no argument from you, got it? I’ve always thought that statue outside the stock exchange was hideous…”

He trails off, pleasant thoughts of arson derailed as he picks up another piece of paper. There, in smudged but legible ink…

“It’s a _map_!” he blurts out. “Fuck me sideways, it’s a map of the bloody cave!”

Aziraphale crinkles his nose in a wince, but it seems to be more out of reflex to the expletive than anything serious, and it’s certainly not enough to spoil Crowley’s elation.

“It looks like there’s another exit here,” he says, turning the map over in his hands and aligning its direction with their current location. “It’s just...”

The bubble of hope in his chest abruptly pops as he examines the map more closely. There _is_ another exit down one of the tunnels, but the sloping path curves closer to the location of the hellmouth, _much_ closer. Under other circumstances the proximity might not give Aziraphale more than a nasty headache and a thoroughly unpleasant chill but now...after pulling that miracle from within himself and promptly tumbling into freezing water, Aziraphale is barely holding himself together as it is.

Crowley can’t foresee any future in which moving closer to the hellmouth won’t cost Aziraphale dearly. But...what choice do they have?

Crowley groans.

“What is it?”

Crowley scrubs a hand down his face and scowls at the map again, hoping something’s changed.

“The only way to get out…”

Aziraphale waits expectantly for Crowley to continue.

“The only way to get out is to get closer to the hellmouth,” Crowley finishes resignedly.

“Closer...?”

“Just look,” Crowley says, crouching down and handing him the map. “We’re here, the hellmouth is here, and the second exit is over there.”

Aziraphale’s finger roughly traces the path Crowley’s pointed out on the map, and Crowley traces the movement of Aziraphale’s hand with his gaze. Crowley has made a habit of covertly watching Aziraphale’s hands over the years; glancing over when Aziraphale would turn a page in a book or adjust his bowtie, noticing the way that he held a pen or a cup of tea. Now, Aziraphale’s hand is shaking as he holds it over the map, and Crowley suddenly finds that he has to look away.

“Right,” Aziraphale says, beginning to push himself upright. “No t-time like the present.”

“What are you doing?” Crowley stutters, hands flailing to help as Aziraphale leans against the wall. “We can’t go _now_, you need to rest first. Save your strength.”

Aziraphale pins him with a look. “I have n-no illusions that I’m going to get any b-better by waiting around, Crowley. We should go now, while I c-can still move under my own power.” His point is punctuated by a full body tremor that nearly sends him back to the ground.

“Aziraphale...”

“We need to leave now,” Aziraphale says firmly. “Let’s go.”

Crowley is left to gather up the torch and the scattered papers as Aziraphale begins to determinedly make his way towards the back of the cave. Aziraphale will want these documents later, surely. Just the thought of a ‘later’, of a future where Aziraphale can safely pour over the yellowed pages to his heart’s content, is too appealing for Crowley to ignore. So, he carefully folds the documents and tucks them inside the inner pocket of his coat before following Aziraphale down the tunnel.

Crowley catches up easily, long legs eating up the ground between them until he’s at Aziraphale’s side. He flicks on the torch to illuminate the uneven ground, and they walk in silence for a few moments until Crowley asks quietly, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Aziraphale continues to plod forward, saying nothing.

“Aziraphale?” He risks touching Aziraphale’s shoulder, wary of upsetting his precarious balance.

Aziraphale starts. “What is it?”

“I asked if there was anything I could do to help.”

“Oh.” Silence again. Aziraphale shivers. “I s-suppose we could talk.”

“I can do that. What do you want to talk about?”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale murmurs, thinking. “Have you really never been i-ice skating?”

Whatever topic of conversation Crowley had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. The absurdity of the moment isn’t lost on him - Aziraphale casually bringing up the topic as if they were simply out to lunch, or on a walk in the park. Crowley might have smiled, but a quick glance at Aziraphale is enough to quell any amusement.

For all of the many years that Crowley has known him, Aziraphale had never been particularly good at concealing his true feelings. It’s one of the things that Crowley likes most about him; Aziraphale wears his heart on his sleeve.

When Aziraphale was happy, his emotions practically tumbled off him, bright and electric. Even when he would ostensibly scold Crowley for his various shenanigans, Aziraphale’s smile always broke through, his words laced with that fond, playful tone that never failed to light up Crowley’s chest like a fireworks display.

Alternatively, when Aziraphale was vexed, his best and most valiant efforts were never quite enough to hide his irritation. Crowley loved seeing him interact with customers for exactly that reason; watching Aziraphale struggling to hide his grumpiness under a mask of benevolent, angelic patience (and failing miserably every single time) was one of the better ways to spend an afternoon, in Crowley’s opinion.

But now, seeing how hard Aziraphale is trying to hold himself together, trying to shield Crowley from the undoubtedly wretched truth of the situation...it’s almost more than Crowley can bear.

Aziraphale is taking deep, measured breaths, clearly hoping to appear as normal as possible. It isn’t working -- every second or third breath hitches in his throat as shivers wrack his frame. His hands are balled into tight fists at his side and even from a distance Crowley can see that they’re shaking. Each of Aziraphale’s slow, careful steps seems to be coming at great cost, and the debt of it settles over his features, raw and painful. Yet... he continues moving forward. Crowley’s indomitable angel.

“Well?” Aziraphale says, looking over at him pointedly. “H-have you?”

Crowley starts, snapped from his thoughts. He’d almost forgotten that Aziraphale had even asked him a question to begin with, but if some conversation might help take his mind off things then Crowley is more than willing to oblige.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. He tears his eyes away, although he’s pretty sure Aziraphale knows full well that he’d been staring. “I mean, no, I’ve never been ice skating. Why?”

“J-just thought you’d be g-good at it, that’s all,” Aziraphale says. “They s-say it’s all about knowing how to move your h-hips, you know.”

“Oh? And how would that give _me_ an advantage, exactly?” Crowley asks airily.

Aziraphale still has the energy to roll his eyes, which Crowley finds heartening.

“Y-you know perfectly well what I mean, my d-dear, the way that you w-walk isn’t exactly subtle.”

Crowley shrugs, a _well, that’s true enough _gesture. They’re making decent progress down the tunnel, better than he’d hoped. Soon, they’ll be out of this bloody cave all together and they can put this entire gut-wrenching experience behind them. If Aziraphale is feeling up to it, Crowley can even take him out for dinner, someplace warm where Crowley can keep Aziraphale firmly in his sights until all of the color returns to his pale face.

“What about you?” Crowley asks. “Are you any good at it?”

“No, I’m a t-terrible skater, actually, but it’s still t-terrific fun. You really ought to...”

Aziraphale trails off. His hand creeps up to his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric of his coat as he draws in a shaky breath. He catches Crowley’s concerned glance and offers up an attempt at a reassuring smile. It does very little to reassure Crowley about anything however, especially when a moment later, Aziraphale staggers dizzily to one side. He catches himself on the wall of the tunnel at the same time that Crowley reaches out a steadying hand.

“I’m a-all right,” he says, answering Crowley’s question before he even has a chance to ask it. “Let’s k-keep moving.”

Again, something twists in Crowley’s chest, but he acquises, and they continue their slow march for another few minutes without speaking.

“Have you ever b-been to the Frost Fair on the Thames, dear?” Aziraphale asks, breaking the silence. His voice is unfocused, almost distracted, like he’s concentrating on something else entirely. “Maybe you could c-come with me next year. That w-would be a wonderful p-place to try ice-skating for the f-first time…”

Crowley frowns.

“Next year? I thought they stopped having those fairs two centuries ago.”

Aziraphale doesn’t respond. As Crowley watches, Aziraphale stumbles once, twice, then comes to a complete stop, staring into the distance of the cave with unseeing eyes. His breathing picks up, as if he’d been running a marathon rather than slowly walking in the dark, and the sound of it echoes harshly in the confined space of the tunnel.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, moving in front of him. “Are you all right?”

Aziraphale nods.

“We should keep moving then.”

Again, Aziraphale nods... but doesn’t move.

Uneasy now, Crowley takes Aziraphale by the shoulders. “Aziraphale?”

Without warning, Aziraphale’s face twists and he drops to his knees, shivering and shuddering convulsively under Crowley’s hands. Aziraphale’s body bends forwards, forehead landing with a thud on Crowley’s shoulder as the angel tries to squirm closer to Crowley’s body heat.

“It h-hurts… and I’m...so c-cold,” Aziraphale gasps out, hands grasping at Crowley’s coat spastically. “N-n-never get warm...ag-gain.”

Aziraphale’s face is like ice against Crowley’s exposed neck.

“Don’t say that,” Crowley soothes. “It’s only temporary. We’re almost there, besides. Just a little farther.”

That’s a lie, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to sense it, trapped in his own misery. Part of Crowley is impressed Aziraphale’s held out so long this close to the hellmouth.

Aziraphale gasps and shudders with renewed vigor, grimacing in pain and pulling tightly at Crowley’s coat.

“It’s all right,” Crowley says, covering Aziraphale’s hands. “If you want it so bad, you can have it.”

With difficulty, he manages to twist out of his coat and place it over Aziraphale’s shoulders. It doesn’t fit in the slightest, but Aziraphale pulls it close regardless.

“You’ll b-b-b-” Aziraphale gasps, wincing as shivers rattle across his frame, “You’ll be c-cold.”

“Nah,” Crowley says dismissively, pulling the jacket more securely over Aziraphale. “I’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale takes a few more gasping breaths before the tension in his body eases, the wave apparently over. He looks shattered, face painfully open and vulnerable as he attempts to gather his composure.

Crowley looks away and readjusts the tartan scarf hanging loosely from Aziraphale’s neck. He knows it won’t do much, of course, but it makes him feel better to be _doing_ something. With a few deft movements, he winds it back around Aziraphale’s neck and tucks in the ends securely. Aziraphale gives him a small, grateful smile in response before patting his hand and trying to push himself to his feet. He collapses back to his knees almost instantly.

“Easy there,” Crowley says, startled. “Let me help, okay?”

Aziraphale nods, then places his hands on Crowley’s shoulder and begins the laborious process of standing. He’s pale, shivering, and there are beads of cold sweat on his brow, but by Someone he’s still the most beautiful thing Crowley’s ever seen.

When Aziraphale is upright, Crowley takes his arm to steady him and says, “Once more unto the breach, eh, Aziraphale?”

“I believe so, my d-dear.”

Now that Crowley is holding Aziraphale’s arm, he can feel the tremors running through his body. They really do come in waves, and they’re washing over Aziraphale with increasing frequency. The pace is marginally faster with Crowley tugging Aziraphale along, but Crowley can feel Aziraphale tiring.

He’s taking more and more of Aziraphale’s weight now too, and when he trips and almost falls Crowley wordlessly winds an arm around Aziraphale’s waist for support.

A memory flashes across Crowley’s mind, but it feels like it happened hundreds of years ago instead just this morning.

_Aziraphale, braced over his hips, heavy and enticing. The shift of Aziraphale’s weight as he moved to place the earmuffs back on his own head. The brief feeling that Crowley’d never be cold again_...

Back then, with the warmth of Aziraphale surrounding him, reality had felt far-off, hazy and unimportant. Now, Aziraphale is cold against his side and reality is brittle and sharp, with an underlying tension that feels like it could snap at any time.

They’re at about the halfway point when Aziraphale is felled again, crumbling to his hands and knees even with Crowley’s support. He groans with pain and shivers as he folds into himself for warmth.

“I’m t-terribly...” Aziraphale pauses as a shudder works brutally down his frame, “sorry ab-bout this, my dear.”

_Is that what they teach you up there,_ Crowley wants to ask, _to __apologize for things that aren’t your fault?’_

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Crowley says instead. “In fact, you ought to file a complaint. Write a letter to the local paper.”

He mimes holding an invisible pencil and scribbles across an imaginary notebook.

“To the Editor;” Crowley begins, invoking every retiree busybody he’s ever encountered, “there is a large cave with illicit alcohol inside, along with ruffians and open fires. This type of area should not be unsecured, and I demand the local constabulary take care of it at once!”

Crowley can barely see Aziraphale’s face where it’s pressed into his knees, but he thinks he can see a glimmer of a smile.

“Really, the types of people that could inhabit such a cave don’t bear thinking about. And don’t get me started on that lake! It’s completely unsafe for the general public.”

That is a smile peeking out from Aziraphale’s knees. “R-really, Crowley... I h-hardly think I would write a l-letter like that.”

“Well, maybe you should! It’s a public crisis, you know, lots of little old ladies might get very bent out of shape if they knew about this cave.”

“I’ll c-consider it,” Aziraphale says primly as he pulls his face from his knees. His eyes are tight with pain, but there’s a glint of humor in them. “I certainly wouldn’t want it s-said that a r-representative of Heaven turned a blind eye to p-public safety. Let’s get g-going, shall we?”

Aziraphale manages to get himself back upright with Crowley’s help, and they continue on their unceasing journey. Aziraphale’s humor only lasts for a few moments as the brutal shivers continue to rock his frame, and he’s quickly back to leaning on Crowley, shifting more and more of his weight onto him as they continue into the cave. Pressed this close, Crowley can _feel_ how cold Aziraphale is, like a block of ice on bare skin as the hellmouth steals his ethereal and physical warmth.

He wishes there was something more he could do. He’s left helpless and hopeless as the waves of cold and pain batter at Aziraphale, stealing his breath and chipping away at his spirit.

* * *

They get to the three quarter mark, the closest point to the hellmouth. Aziraphale can only manage a slow shuffle now, stopping every few steps to shudder weakly and curl further into Crowley’s side. The pauses get longer and longer, until finally Aziraphale looks up and gasps, “P-please, C-Crowley. J-ju-st…”

Aziraphale can’t finish, shuddering out a cold breath in the vicinity of Crowley’s collarbone.

“We can’t stop. We have to keep going, angel.”

Crowley hears a whimper, or maybe a sob. “_P-please_. A… a m-mom-ment. C-Crowley.”

The way Aziraphale says his name...

“Just a moment, then.”

Aziraphale slumps against his side at the reprieve, then shuffles closer to Crowley, clumsily pressing their bodies together full length. Trembling hands burrow their way past clothing to touch bare skin, and Crowley barely suppresses a yelp when Aziraphale’s hands find their way into the waistband of his trousers.

“Ooo, shameless, you are,” Crowley tries to joke. Aziraphale merely presses himself closer, forehead and face pushing into Crowley’s neck and his hands curling in the small of Crowley’s back.

“C-cold,” Aziraphale breathes, a hint of apology in his voice.

Crowley snaps his fingers out of sheer instinct, with no real plan in mind other than vague, desperate thoughts of warmer climates and safer places. His brain catches up with his impulse a half second later when nothing happens, and he curses himself for being so foolish. Besides, even if he could summon a dozen raging furnaces or enough blankets to cover a city block, it wouldn’t provide Aziraphale with anything more than temporary relief. Still, he has to do _something_...but Aziraphale already has his coat, what more can Crowley_ _do__?

Some of Aziraphale’s fluffy hair tickles his nose, and Crowley sneezes. He runs a hand over Aziraphale’s head, smoothing down the errant, feathery strands and is struck with sudden inspiration. Of course, why didn’t he think of this before? Crowley reaches inside himself, rolls his shoulders just so, and his wings pop into existence. The black feathers are nearly invisible in the dark, save for an iridescent shimmer that glitters in the light of the torch.

He wraps them around Aziraphale with a flourish, deliberately puffing up the feathers to trap more warmth.

Aziraphale opens his eyes as Crowley’s wings enclose him.

“C-Crowley...T-thank you.” He smiles faintly and closes them again, relaxing into Crowey’s warmth.

They’re wrapped in a cocoon of feathers and Crowley’s senses are full of Aziraphale. It’s a devastating storm of sensations — Aziraphale’s body molded against his, Aziraphale’s hands trembling beneath Crowley’s shirt, against his skin — and Crowley thinks he might drown beneath the downpour.

It’s everything Crowley has ever wanted and everything he’s ever feared all rolled into one frozen moment, and he’s too exhausted, too completely overwhelmed to stop his mind from wandering. He pictures a different universe; one where Aziraphale is warm and safe, one where Aziraphale’s arms reach for Crowley for no other reason except the desire to hold him close.

It’s a selfish dream. Aziraphale is freezing to death in his arms, and all he can think about is Aziraphale reciprocating his affection. He already has their friendship, and he’ll be damned if he messes it up.

Aziraphale is leaning against him harder now. For once, the thing Crowley wants aligns with what Aziraphale needs, and he wraps his arms around the shivering angel as tight as he can and maneuvers his wings even closer around them.

Aziraphale lets out a sigh of relief. He shifts in Crowley’s arms, erasing the last millimeter of space between them, and Crowley takes the opportunity to press a small, surreptitious kiss on the top of his soft curls.

“We’ll be back in your shop before you know it, I promise,” he murmurs. “It’s only a little farther now.”

Aziraphale’s shivers are lessening, and for one brief moment Crowley feels a surge of relief. Then the shivering stops entirely, and he suddenly understands the truth of the situation.

Aziraphale’s corporation is shutting down.

“Aziraphale?!”

Crowley takes a quick step back. He moves his hands up to grasp Aziraphale’s shoulders, studying his face. Aziraphale’s eyes are still closed, his features slack and sliding into sleep.

“No, no, you can’t fall asleep, Aziraphale, we need to keep moving.”

“...rest…” Aziraphale mumbles in reply.

“Not now, don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale’s lips are blue, his face sickly white, and Crowley realizes that if Aziraphale falls asleep now he may very well never wake up again.

Crowley gives him a gentle shake, his own hands trembling with fear against Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Aziraphale! Wake up!”

Aziraphae’s eyelids flutter.

“There we are, angel, rise and shine.”

“...cold…” Aziraphale mutters weakly, burrowing closer.

“I know, angel, I know.” He tucks his wings away and pulls Aziraphale’s arm over his shoulder in preparation to keep moving, but Aziraphale is dead weight. His head lolls on his chest and his body weight almost drags Crowley to the floor.

“Fuck! C’mon, Aziraphale, work with me here.”

Aziraphale mumbles something incomprehensible and slumps in Crowley’s arms.

“Shit! Aziraphale, don’t fall asleep!”

With desperate movements, Crowley manages to gather up Aziraphale’s dangling limbs into a rough bridal carry and start moving down the tunnel. They’re close to the exit now, they’re so close, and Crowley wills his tired legs to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

Aziraphale is completely limp in his arms and going paler by the minute. He barely responds to Crowley’s constant stream of quiet encouragement, so Crowley takes to jostling Aziraphale whenever he doesn’t get a mumble or groan in response. After ten minutes, Aziraphale stops responding at all, and Crowley redoubles his efforts as he pushes down the blinding, overwhelming fear that he’s going to be too late...

There! A beam of light in the darkness, only a dozen feet away where the tunnel abruptly pivots to the left. Crowley’s entire world narrows until it’s just that flash of light, just Aziraphale’s weight in his arms. Is Aziraphale even breathing? Crowley can’t tell, can’t risk stopping to check, and he nearly chokes on the cold wave of fear that rises in his throat.

Then he’s rounding the corner and the sudden burst of sunlight is enough to momentarily blind him. He blinks away the rush of tears that spring into his eyes and sees the open expanse of the blue sky above.

Crowley keeps moving forward, dragging his feet across the frozen ground until finally, blessedly, he feels the proximal tether to hell weaken and snap. It isn’t a moment too soon; Crowley’s exhaustion immediately takes over and he collapses, sending both of them sprawling into the snow.

Crowley’s hands are on Aziraphale in an instant, carding through his hair and cupping his face. Aziraphale shifts beneath his touch and thank God or Satan or fucking anyone, Crowley can feel the warmth returning to his skin.

Aziraphale’s eyes flutter open, blue and bewildered and _alive_, and Crowley doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything so beautiful.

* * *

Around the time that he attempts a third pass at the same paragraph he’s been ostensibly reading for the past fifteen minutes, Aziraphale finally realizes he isn’t really paying much attention to the page at all.

It has nothing to do with the words themselves. The bootleggers’ documents are proving to be even more interesting than he’d first suspected when he’d come across them in the cave three weeks ago, and Aziraphale has thoroughly enjoyed his research into their history thus far. At this moment, however, he’s finding it rather hard to keep his mind on the subject at hand.

Aziraphale doesn’t recall much of what happened after leaving the camp where he found the document, only bits and pieces, but his mind keeps wandering back to the scattered fragments that he does remember-

_ _Aziraphale can’t seem to get warm. It feels as though he's drowning in the cold, as if he’s trapped under the ice of a frozen pond and can’t break his way through to the surface. There’s a hole inside his chest where She used to be, but Aziraphale is too far gone to understand why She’s abandoned him in the first place. _ _

_ _Perhaps if he just took a rest, Aziraphale would wake up somewhere where everything didn’t hurt so terribly. He’s so tired... but someone is shaking him, and he finds himself barely clinging to consciousness... _ _

_ _Then suddenly he’s bursting into warmth and blue skies, bright sunlight exploding across Aziraphale’s vision even though his eyes are still closed. There’s a hand stroking through his hair now too and oh, doesn’t that feel lovely? He manages to open his eyes, just a bit, and is rewarded with gold yellow eyes encompassing his vision. He hears a voice that’s so familiar and dear and Aziraphale wonders if he’s dreaming…_ _

Aziraphale gives himself a little shake and wills his thoughts back to the present. No use in dwelling on the past. Besides, Aziraphale has other problems to deal with, such as the middle aged woman who will _not_ leave his shop. She’s been loitering for nearly an hour now, and worse, giving every indication that she might _actually_ try to buy something. Currently she’s leisurely browsing Aziraphale’s Tolkien collection despite his best efforts to make her experience as unpleasant as possible.

For one thing, the temperature in the bookshop is hot enough to border on unbearable. When Aziraphale had first gotten home from Alaska he’d still felt half-frozen for a good week afterwards, and discovered just how warm the shop could get if he set the heating system to maximum strength and poured in a touch of magic on the side.

He might have turned the heat back down once he’d started feeling normal again, except he’d discovered that the sweltering temperature was an excellent way to discourage potential customers from lingering. Unfortunately, it seems to be having no effect whatsoever on the shop’s current and only patron. She continues to stroll back and forth along the shelves, oblivious to Aziraphale’s growing irritation.

He’s already cycled through his standard tactics: loudly clearing his throat and looking pointedly at the clock on the wall, staring at her suspiciously as if he thinks she might shoplift at any moment, even faking an extremely loud phone conversation about a terrible, contagious illness he thinks he may have contracted at the zoo earlier that week.

If Crowley were here, he’d probably trip her up on the rug or fabricate some story about a gas leak. However, Aziraphale hasn’t seen or heard from Crowley since they’d returned to London three weeks ago.

Crowley had driven him home from the airport in the Bentley that night, and they’d spent most of the ride talking about nothing much in particular. But when Crowley pulled up in front of the shop, an awkward silence fell as Aziraphale didn’t move to get out of the car. Finally, Crowley cleared his throat and spoke.

_ “I guess I’ll see you around then, angel. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?” _

Aziraphale hadn’t wanted Crowley to leave, but what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t want Crowley to go, that he wanted him to...what, exactly? There’s a box in Aziraphale’s mind labeled ‘Things He Wants To Do With Crowley’, but he keeps it locked away and does his best not to dwell on the contents.

So Aziraphale had replied, “_Yes, I suppose I will see you around. Goodnight, my dear,” _and then he had gotten out of the car and Crowley had driven away. His unspoken words settled in his chest like a weight, and even now it stings to recall the feeling of something unsaid between the two of them.

The customer makes a move towards a first edition Robert Burns, snapping Aziraphale back to the present. He steps quickly across the floor and inserts himself in front of the shelf before she can reach it.

“These aren’t for sale,” he says, a little more forcefully than is strictly polite. She shrugs, undeterred, and continues past him to the next shelf instead.

Aziraphale begins whistling a loud, off-key melody (another trick in his arsenal of reasonably passive but incredibly obnoxious tactics to encourage people out the door) but truth be told his heart isn’t really in it. It’s getting harder and harder to keep from opening that box in his mind, the one full of dangerous things that Aziraphale aches to have but knows he wouldn’t be allowed to keep.

A blush rises on the back of his ears as he remembers how he’d pushed Crowley into the snow in front of the hellmouth, acting on sheer impulse before his common sense could catch up and take over. He hadn’t thought it through until Crowley was already sprawled beneath him, their bodies pressed together, and Aziraphale was suddenly so delirious with _wanting_ that he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to box it up again.

Later, when the hurt and the cold had been at their worst, had Crowley been able to tell that Aziraphale wanted more than just his steadying hand in the dark, more than just the addictive warmth of Crowley’s skin?

Is that why Crowley hasn’t been in touch?

The bell on the front door chimes behind him and Aziraphale scowls. Generally he tries not to take such things personally, but another customer coming in right now does feel as if the universe is trying to personally test Aziraphale’s patience. Aziraphale turns around and finds that the universe has a different plan in mind for him today.

Crowley is standing in the doorway and wearing a dark coat that Aziraphale hasn’t seen before; it’s a sharply tailored number that falls nearly to his knees, accentuating his lanky frame. His hair is loose from the bun he’s been favoring this decade, and it’s just long enough to fall across the top of the burgundy scarf tucked into his collar.

He grins widely as he saunters across the floor toward Aziraphale with one hand held behind his back, hiding something from view.

“Hey, Aziraphale. Got any plans today?”

That box in Aziraphale’s mind is wide open now, spilling out a host of dizzying possibilities. He wants to throw his arms around Crowley, maybe run his fingers through that thick red hair for good measure and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. Crowley might fake a scowl in response, but he’d accept the kiss graciously and return one of his own. Then Crowley would take him in his arms and lower his face for a proper kiss-

Aziraphale hurriedly files those impulses away, tucks them somewhere dimly lit and out of the way, and reminds himself that some things just aren’t meant to be.

Besides, Crowley is _here_. He can torment himself another day. For right now, the sight of Crowley smiling in the doorway is more than enough to fill Aziraphale with a distinct, pleasant warmth that’s entirely different from the near-tropical temperature of the bookshop.

“How lovely to see you, Crowley,” he says. “As a matter of fact, my schedule is rather open today. Why do you ask?”

Crowley whips his hand out from behind his back with a bit of dramatic flair and brandishes two tickets in front of Aziraphale’s nose. _Admits One: Hampton Court Palace Ice Skating Rink_ is printed on each ticket in neat black letters against a backdrop of illustrated snowflakes.

“What do you say, angel?” Crowley says, looking exceptionally pleased with himself. “I figured it was finally time for me to give ice-skating a go. Want to come along and give me some tips?”

Aziraphale stares at him. Something begins to bubble up and fizz in his chest, as if he’s a bottle of champagne that’s been shaken far past the point of caution and is mere moments away from erupting. It’s comforting and overwhelming and painful all at the same time, his box is bursting at the seams, and he wants to open his mouth and drown Crowley in his gratitude and appreciation...

It’s not until Crowley’s smile starts to falter that Aziraphale realizes he’s let the silence drag on for far too long.

“Sorry, was this a bad idea?” Crowley asks, his bravado quickly slipping into uncertainty. He starts to lower the tickets to his side. “I just thought that we’d, um, I don’t know, but after everything you’ve been through I shouldn’t have assumed--”

“No, no, nothing like that, my dear!” Aziraphale says hurriedly, pushing his emotions down and out of sight. ”It’s a wonderful idea. Just...just wait right here, don’t move a muscle.”

He turns his back on the now bewildered demon and dashes into the backroom, where he hurriedly scoops up the bag sitting beside the settee before rushing back to Crowley. With a flourish, he reveals the contents of the bag.

It’s two pairs of ice skates, one black and one cream-colored. Crowley’s eyes go wide behind his glasses as he takes in the sight of them, dangling from their laces in Aziraphale’s hand.

“I bought them a week ago,” Aziraphale says, delighted. “I was just-”

_ -just trying to work up the nerve to call and invite you- _

“-just waiting to finish up a few things around the shop.”

Crowley’s face is lit up now, warm and open.

“Well then, shall we do lunch first?” Crowley asks. “As luck would have it, I think a spot just opened up at that new Peruvian place a few blocks down.”

His glasses slide down his nose and Aziraphale can see a sliver of gold peering out over the dark frames as Crowley drops him a wink.

A sudden _thud_ reverberates nearby, startling them both. Aziraphale had completely forgotten about his obstinate customer, but his exasperation returns in full force as he watches her replace the book she’d dropped back onto the shelf on the other side of the shop.

“Right,” he says irritatedly. He can feel Crowley’s amused gaze following him as he makes his way over to the woman.

“Excuse me, miss, I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale says, in a tone that doesn’t sound very sorry at all. “But we’re closed for lunch, so if you could please make your way to the exit -” he puts a firm hand on her back and guides her to the door, “-that would be very much appreciated.”

She opens her mouth to protest, gesturing towards the books, but he cuts her off with a simpering smile and a “Thank you _so_ much for visiting, have a lovely day,” before shutting the door firmly in her face. He can hear a faint squawk from behind the door and then the sound of rapidly departing footsteps.

“Thank goodness,” he sighs, leaning his back against the door. “I’d tried everything short of violence and she still wouldn’t _leave_.”

“Ah, is that why it’s so hot in here?” Crowley says appreciatively. “It’s a good tactic, but maybe next time you could think about trying...actual violence?” He flashes his teeth in a smile that’s equal parts devilish and beguiling.

“Crowley!”

“All right, all right.”

“Now, where were we?” Aziraphale asks, pulling his scarf from a peg nearby and winding it around his neck. “I believe you said something about lunch?”

“After you, angel,” Crowley says, inclining his head graciously towards the door.

The sky outside is a wash of pale blue and gray. Aziraphale thinks _ah,_ _a little snowfall would be nice, wouldn’t it?_ and just like that, a drift of light, powdery snow swirls down as they step outside the shop.

He fumbles to close the doors behind him, hands full of skates, and Crowley reaches to take them from him.

“No, no, I have it handled, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, finally shutting the doors with a satisfying _snick_. “I think you’ve carried more than your fair share lately, wouldn’t you say?” His tone is light hearted, flippant even, but he feels it waver a little on the last words.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Crowley says. “Besides, I’m a demon. If I was offering to carry something, it would only be for selfish reasons.”

Crowley pauses and looks intently at Aziraphale. “I’d have to _want_ to carry it.”

Aziraphale feels his heart lurch as Crowley’s sunglasses slip down his nose and gold eyes bore into his own. His chest fills with an unimaginable warmth, flushing his cheeks and making his heart pound. The emotions unsaid between the two of them fill the air like his miracled snowflakes, and he _almost_ opens his mouth and says something foolish.

Then Crowley pushes up his sunglasses and turns away, and the moment is broken.

“Anyways.” Crowley plucks the black ice skates from Aziraphale’s hand. “They aren’t _that_ heavy. They’re just ice skates, angel.”

There’s a brief silence where they both collect themselves, and then Crowley says, “We probably ought to get going. The rink will close before we get there at this rate.”

Aziraphale gives himself a vigorous mental shake and says, “Quite right. Let’s get a wiggle on, shall we?”

“Get a_ wiggle_ on? Honestly, Aziraphale, I don’t know where you pick these things up…”

They walk towards lunch, matching skates in hand, and soft snow settles on the streets of Soho.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter! If you liked the pacing and flow of Aziraphale and Crowley escaping the cave, it was heavily inspired by Star Wars: The Clone Wars: Wild Space by Karen Miller. If you like hurt/comfort and Obi-Wan Kenobi, she’s a good author to read.
> 
> Also, thank you so much for joining us on this wonderful adventure! Turcote and I started brainstorming this fic in August 2019 because she wanted to write a hypothermia fic with Aziraphale. We started workshopping plot ideas together, and then we just progressed to writing together. It's been a real treat working with her, and I hope we'll have another collaboration for you guys soon. 
> 
> If you want to keep up with us or send us messages, we both have tumblrs, [charliebrown1234](https://charliebrown1234.tumblr.com/) and [thepaisleyelf](https://thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com/). We’ve both also written other works in the Good Omens fandom, so please check out our author pages. See you next time!


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